


Overwhelming Presence

by MyersMoobies



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drowning, H - Freeform, I am a man, I die like a man, LAURIE IS SO DONE, M/M, MY TAGS KEEP DELETING, Michael is a Little Shit, Michael is gay, Multi, Oh My God, STOP SAYING ITS FREEFORM, She is my queen, Very loosely implied, blowjob, feng is your fucking homie, feng/nea if you squint, he grinds his foot on you, he said gay rights, i kiss her forehead softly, implied male reader, indulgent shittery, literally not ever gonna read this again im sick of seeing the words, male genitals, male reader - Freeform, michael has a pipe, michael likes choking, michael wanks you off sorta, mild feng/nea, so do you, so is he, sorry - Freeform, thank you laurie strode, there is no beta, there's like one line of dialogue, these tags are weird i hate doing it, unexpected blowjob but still welcome, you both love it, you dont really speak, you're horny as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyersMoobies/pseuds/MyersMoobies
Summary: Michael catches you out in a small bathroom. He decides your mouth isn't busy enough and could be put to better use.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 137





	Overwhelming Presence

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write much, and I've never posted. Unbeta'd and purely self-indulgent porn. Please read the tags.  
> This was spawned from being horny with a friend and she oh-so-kindly guided me through. Thank you queen<3

It wasn't often you caused a generator to explode from pure fear. 

Sure, there was the odd slip-up when fixing the machines - a rogue wire dangling too close to another exposed element, a well-meaning teammate with shaking hands, a cheap tool from an even cheaper toolbox snapping mid-way through your work and sending the whole damned thing into disarray - but rarely was it ever caused by nerves. And yet, as you glanced up from your handiwork for the third time that minute - a movement that had countless times saved your sorry ass in these trials - you couldn't help but let out a sharp yelp of surprise, dropping the stripped-back wires that were in your hands and letting them smack back against the metal of the generator, causing a horrifically loud _bang_ and a cloud of sparks.  
Because there he was, stood on the opposite side of the generator oh-so-innocently, as if he was just another survivor come to help out, ghastly pale mask illuminated in the darkness of the small bathroom the trial ground presented. 

Michael fucking Myers.

You stumbled backwards from the generator, falling on your ass and scrabbling away from his imposing figure that completely filled your vision until you felt your back hit the wall. The bastard had the nerve to tilt his head, and you could almost sense a smirk from behind the mask. 

It took you a moment to fully snap out of your fear and actually try to analyse the situation - the bathroom in the Gideon Meatplant was tiny, grimy, and all sorts of unpleasant - but the real kicker this time around was the apparent lack of any exit points other than the main door you'd come through earlier. The main door that was being occupied by a near seven-foot tall killer who was almost too broad to fit through the frame. Maybe he had to turn to get his shoulders through? Who knew? Either way, Michael was eyeing you down with all the focus of a rabid attack dog, his weapon twitching in the grip of his fist, hand clenching then unclenching as if the muscles were fighting a war with one another over what to do. He'd switched out his usual iconic kitchen knife for something new - a gleaming section of pipe, and despite the lack of any sharp points a chill still ran down your spine because you knew that the murderer before you probably held enough brute strength in his _little finger_ to ram the metal through you all the same.  
It wasn't a nice thought.

You then turned your attention to something else, something perhaps even more baffling than Michael's curious taste in weapons. It was the simple fact that he hadn't yet taken the two, three or so short strides across the room that would put him within prime killing distance of you. He was still blocking the doorway, right beside the generator which now buzzed feebly below him, chest rising and falling... quicker than usual, if your memory served you correctly. Honestly, you’d been here so long that if it wasn’t the presence of a bear-trap on the ground, or the tell-tale sound of a bell screaming out across the grounds, or a damned puppet, you could usually work out who the killer was by the sound they made alone – how they walked, how quiet they were, how they breathed.

Something had gotten this man excited, and judging by where his gaze was still locked, that something was you.

There was a beat of silence in the room. Wide eyes met masked ones. You blinked. Blinked again. People tend to blink a lot anyway, but for some reason you felt right now like it was the most unholy of sins to do so. A life-or-death staring contest with a killer in a Star Trek mask, and by god were you losing. Finally, you let your eyes slip away from his for the briefest of moments, and the first thing that caught your attention was the odd bulge in the Shape's overalls. And it was on this bulge that your eyes decided to settle, continually ogling him with an expression that was nothing short of sheer confusion until it finally clicked in your head - _Michael Myers was hard._

Your eyes darted back up to his face at this sudden realisation, and you didn't have the time right now to consider the deeper implications behind something so human - was he capable of emotion after all? Arousal, clearly, but was he forced to kill? Was he here because he enjoyed it? Did the Entity force him to, or did-  
The Shape before you didn't seem too amused by your silently-philosophical gawking, and it was this that finally got him to move. You weren’t even given time to protest as he crossed the small space between you. Before you knew it, one of those huge, bloodied hands had wrapped itself around your throat and you were hoisted upwards by it into the air, kicking and flailing and everything in-between.

Michael did what he did best and watched curiously. Your hands flew up to grip at his wrist; you were well aware he was too strong to get him to let go, but if even for a moment it gave your neck a brief reprieve from taking the full weight of your dangling body. The hand tightened, tightened some more, until your face went red and tears began to prick at your eyes, tiny strained pleas for him to stop slipping out and falling on deaf latex ears. Your hearing pounded with the rush of blood and your heart’s erratic, scared rhythm, and your vision began to blur over with little black spots until finally your struggling weakened, leaving your hands to flop to your sides. You awaited the feeling of a blunt pipe bursting through your abdomen, whimpering pathetically in his hold. But it never came.

Prematurely, you felt, (because you weren't dead _yet_ , Michael) he tossed you aside to the ground, hand releasing its hold in one swift motion and causing you to exhale a still-breathless gasp upon contact with the cold tile floor of the bathroom. You'd fallen from quite a height, really, Michael was- _fucking massive_ , and it wasn't something you should be so oddly thrilled by, given the fact that the man had just choked you out and had no doubt popped a chub over the mere _thought_ of doing so to you earlier.  
You weren’t sure if it was the implication behind that, or the choking, or the way your head had smacked against the tiles and made blood dribble down from your forehead, but you felt light-headed.

When your vision cleared a little, and the sound of rushing blood in your ears was no longer the only thing you could hear, you chanced to once again look up and try lock eyes with the mask looming so many feet above you. Only to find it inches from your face. 

Michael was straddling your much smaller frame, legs either side of you, still hard and still drawing in gleeful little breaths behind that damned mask that amplified each sound, and for once you were grateful you couldn't see exactly what he was staring at through the darkened eyeholes, because judging by the minute tips of his head you were being eyed up like the last fresh pastry on a bakery shelf.  
He’d chosen to set his pipe down by your head with a horridly solid _clang_ against the tiles – his hand wasn’t on it, but somehow the placement felt like a silent threat. _Don’t do anything stupid._ Or maybe _do_ – you were sure this was the kind of man to get off on the chase, and now you had the evidence for that in the form of his raging hard-on.  
His hand shifted, and you flinched instinctively, as if somehow that would protect you from the wills and wants of this behemoth of a man. Once again, however, Michael surpassed your low, low expectations of murder. You felt no sudden breach of cold metal into your flesh - he instead reached over your head, and you could hear the squeak of a metal tap being turned, catching you off-guard and drawing out your very own squeak of surprise. A few seconds later, your brain caught up with your ears and the confusing realisation slapped you in the face as the noise of running water became clearer. He was filling up one of the sinks.

You stared up at him from your impromptu cage made by his large thighs, a look of sheer panic laced with a fatal curiosity etched clear across your face, and if his breathing was anything to go by, this only seemed to get him more riled up. It took only a tiny downwards tilt of your head to notice you were practically face to face with the hard-on in his overalls, making your eyes shoot away and your face heat up a bright red. Not that it was any of your business, but you were sure Michael was hung, and maybe if you ever escaped this weird Myers-boner-sink purgatory you'd discuss your findings with Feng, who had made your acquaintance by flopping herself down next to you at the campfire on the very same day she’d arrived, not long after getting butchered in her first trial, and loudly declaring the Trapper to have one of the biggest crotch bulges she'd ever seen.

After today, you begged to differ. 

Following what felt like an eternity, Michael leant over you again to turn off the tap. The room fell into momentary silence, save for his aroused panting (because it was at this point, you couldn't deny it any longer) and the feeble whirring of the generator in the background. There was no further pausing however, as a hand wrapped itself back around your throat and you got dragged sky-high once more. How didn't Michael get vertigo up here? You weren't sure, and any thoughts were cut off as your head was suddenly, without warning, shoved into the grimy water that now occupied the sink.

You had no time to draw in a breath and prepare, and even then, the sudden movement jerked you into gasping, forcing rancid tap water into your mouth and down your lungs. This in turn triggered some basal reflex, long forgotten, the intense urge to _live_ , and you began flailing for all your life was worth, because after an uncountable amount of time in this damned Fog being chopped, sliced, diced, axed, chainsawed, bludgeoned, shocked, choked, and everything beside, you'd never been _drowned_ , and the sheer panic that now flooded your veins was a whole new kind of adventure altogether.  
Your hands fumbled blindly behind you, finally finding purchase and grasping onto a thick wrist, scratching at it as hard as you could, but to no avail. It was almost like Michael didn't feel it, and maybe he truly didn't – it seemed his mind was focused on more hedonistic sensations, as he'd moved to press you down further with his body, erection now forced against your back-end and extremely hard, as if the poor guy hadn't had something so sensual happen in his whole life. 

Your head grew dizzy and the flood of water in your lungs became heavy, dragging your mind down into some fuzzy state of being, and just as you felt on the cusp of being able to let go and float away to some indeterminable place of death, that same damned hand dragged you out of the water and into the cold. Faintly, through the sting of dirty water in your eyes you could see the sink below, plumes of red from the blood where you’d hit your head on the floor now settling nicely into the liquid. Screaming for air, your lungs automatically kicked into overdrive, hungrily gasping for as much as they could take but too soon, because he was _forcing you under again_ , and now-bloody water was in your lungs again, and he pulled you out and he shoved you back under and your mind was fizzing and your lungs _ached_ and you were sobbing but it mixed with the water so you couldn't really tell and neither could he (not that he’d care) and he pulled you out and shoved you in, out then in, out then in; frantic, erratic, frenzied, as if with each push he grew closer to his climax, and maybe he was because he was still _so hard_ against your back and the thought had no right to excite your dizzy mind as much as it was-

He'd stopped. You were left to slump slightly beside the sink, on your knees and wide-eyed as you hacked water and gasped for any semblance of air to fill your mouth, and you were so hell-bent on oxygen that you didn't notice the sound of a zipper being undone, or the hand moving to grip your hair, until your mouth was filled with something else entirely.

Michael Myers had shoved his dick down your throat.

Giving him _some_ credit, there was a pause as he pushed inside, but you were sure it was more for his own sense of enjoyment rather than actually allowing you to recover your senses in any capacity. Your ears still fuzzed and your mind was scrambled to hell from the breathlessness, so you just worked with what you had and focused on the overwhelmingly heavy weight of his dick on your tongue. Michael stared down at you, and you stared back up through bleary, stinging eyes, expression a little dazed, blood once again beginning to creep out from the cut on your forehead to lazily drip down your face. Something about that must've really turned him on, because the cock inside your mouth twitched and you could swear you heard some deep trill of pride emanate from his chest at the appearance of his handiwork before him. Not that you considered semi-drowning someone to be a precise and difficult art form, but clearly Michael held some pride in what he'd done, and who were you to take that away from him?

The hand woven into your hair tightened slightly, and he began to move. His thrusts were shallow at first, experimental, almost like he’d suddenly become scared of hurting you any further than you already were, as if the way you were now was some treasured and fleeting state of perfection. For all you knew, it was, in his eyes. Soon enough though, his enjoyment must’ve started to outweigh the fear of damaged goods, and he began to move more feverishly, as frantic and as lacking in rhythm as he had been when he was taking his sweet time with drowning you only moments prior.

You didn’t want to admit it, but it felt fucking heavenly. Truthfully, you’d always had an odd sort of _thing_ for Michael since the first time he appeared in the Realm, skulking the streets of Haddonfield and grabbing you off of a generator before the sound of his resonating terror radius even registered properly in your ears. It seemed that over time he’d grown even quieter – sure, if he looked your way now you’d sometimes feel that horrifically cold tremble run down your spine that warned of a killer’s murderous gaze locked onto you, or one of your fellow survivors would grab your hand and yank you into hiding just moments before he passed by, knife clenched tightly and breathing deep, heavy, where they had sensed him coming in the nick of time – but he seemed to no longer give out any damned radius at all, and it meant the sly bastard could walk right behind you and breathe down your neck as you worked if he so wished. And sometimes he did, because he was Michael Myers, and Michael Myers was one hundred percent the pure embodiment of being a dick.  
None of that stopped you from staring after his hulking frame when he hung you on a hook and stalked off to find one of your teammates. None of it stopped you from sometimes, against all logical reasoning, _letting him stare_ , locking eyes with the mask and refusing to move until you heard that familiarly shrill piano trill the Entity played out indicating that Michael was now in a prime state to royally fuck your day over. Man, you never heard the end of it from your teammates when you’d all recovered from death and reappeared around the campfire, but you just couldn’t help it. 

You usually explained it away with a nervous laugh and a wave. 

_It’s just fear_ , you’d say. _It’s just fear, and I froze up._ But part of you knew it was something much deeper, much darker. Given by the way Nea would glance over at you after you spouted such bullshit, eyebrow raised, she knew too. Probably told Feng, given how... close the two had become.  
Regardless of your hideous moral debate over whether or not it was right to swoon after a mass murderer (specifically, a mass murderer hell-bent on killing not only you but your friends too), it didn’t change the fact that right now, said mass murderer was grinding his dick into the heat of your mouth and gazing down at you like you were the prophesised saviour of mankind. That was the emotion you chose to project onto the mask, at least, and you found yourself heating up under an eyeless stare so direct.

Clearly bored of having nothing to do, the hand that wasn’t occupied with gripping your hair and moving your head as fast as he liked now moved up to trace – _lightly_ – across your face, gentle fingers exploring your cheekbones, the curve of your eye socket, pressing against the wound on your head until you let out a hiss of pain around his cock.  
Being the little shit that he was, he pressed against it again, a little harder, and you responded in kind with a sharper yelp that made him shudder over you, clearly fond of the sound of your pain.  
As nice as this experience was, you were finding it harder and harder to ignore the pressing issue of your own arousal, and you clumsily reached down to begin palming yourself through the material of your pants.

Michael didn’t like that.

The hand in your hair wrenched you off of him and slammed your face into the hard edge of the sink, forcing you to let out a painfully aroused cry of pain as a new cut opened up below the older one and began oozing out more blood, stars dancing across your already-abused vision. He pulled you back to his crotch and forced himself back in, the hand that had been lightly admiring your face (or maybe your bone structure) taking a firmer hold around your jaw and squeezing until you gave into the pain and fully opened your mouth up for him, not that it would take much convincing for you to do so at this point because _god_ this entire experience was so unbearably hot and it shouldn’t have been at all, but what could you do? For whatever reason, he wanted you, and you alone, and you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth at this point, especially when you’d been in the Fog for so, so long – (after a while, even touching yourself lost its appeal). 

Michael had definitely noticed your bothered predicament at this point, and now with both your hands lying dutifully by your sides as he pounded over and over into the wet heat of your mouth as if you were nothing but a toy to him (and you probably were) he moved to press a heavy boot against your crotch.

You gulped around his cock. He groaned, and pressed his foot down.

The reaction from you was instantaneous, some silent permission being given by the killer above for you to needily rut against his boot like nothing else existed in the world – and needily rut you did, tiny whimpers and gasps falling from your lips and spilling out around his dick like pleasured prayers. Right here, right now, the only thing that mattered to you – the only thing that Myers wanted you to care about – was him. It was the pleasure he and he alone was giving you, had been so _kind_ as to allow you, the hard cock he was letting you whine and suck along, and that’s when it hit you – he really _was_ letting you, because if Michael had wanted you dead, it would’ve been over and done within a matter of moments long ago, probably long before you’d even noticed him standing in the doorway.

It was this thought that somehow drove you into an even more euphoric state, pressing up against his boot for dear life, and he in turn pushed it down harder, forcing out an incensed moan that sent vibrations down his dick and had him fully bottoming out inside you, dick repeatedly hitting the back of your throat and pulling out with obscenely wet noises that you were sure to think about until the day you finally died for good.  
He was excruciatingly close now, if the taste of salty pre-cum on your tongue and the low grunts of pleasure he made were anything to go by, and you were so, so close too – if it wasn’t for the hand in your hair forcing your head down and _making you take it_ , you would’ve gagged long ago, would’ve pulled away and gasped in air. But Michael had an iron grip, and so you were convulsing, gasping instead around the hard heat that kept sliding back and forth, in and out, no rhythm to it at all as Michael finally, _completely_ gave in and released his hot load down your throat with an overwhelmed gasp, an ungodly amount, and he held you in place and watched you try to swallow so you didn’t choke. Some spilt out around his dick and he pushed it back in with his thumb, forcing the digit in alongside his cock and making sure you licked it clean.  
Something about that tipped you over too and you came, harder than you ever remembered orgasming in your life, squirming in his hold, because as you moved away from the sensation of the continually grinding boot that was starting to slowly trickle into a feeling of overstimulation, of pain, you moved towards his dick, impossibly long even when now-flaccid, still down your throat as the last of his seed ran out. Once again, your vision completely gave out – white this time, static – and your lungs still cried out for air but now for a whole other reason.

As if he could read minds, Michael pulled out of your mouth with a rousingly wet pop, and the sheer lewdity of the sound almost had you hard again, if the tiny tired pulse your dick gave was to be believed. Clearly the man above you had a similar thought; he didn’t remove his boot from your crotch, and continued pressing it down insistently despite your garbled pleas for him to stop, that you couldn’t take any more, you couldn’t go again, it was all _too much_ , but of course Michael didn’t care, and he kept rubbing that damned boot against you until you cried out, hands flailing to find purchase and settling for his leg, clinging onto it like a lifeline as you came once again, this time fully whiting out and collapsing over his thigh. Your entire body shook and your mouth was spitting out needy mewls of pleasure, breathy cries of his name, _Michael_ , and then there were two thick arms wrapped around you as you were pulled close against a warm, broad chest – _his_ warm, broad chest – and he held you through the pain of your second mind-numbing orgasm, stroking those two bloody cuts he’d made and slipping the finger under his mask to lick off the blood with a sense of morbid curiosity. It came out clean. You shivered.

You weren’t left alone in peace for long, as suddenly the generator behind you both popped, issuing out a shrill klaxon blare that made you jump and shook you from your post-orgasm haze. Michael hoisted you up in one tight, secure arm - the other grabbed his section of pipe - and he turned to face down whoever the hell had managed to get the generator done without either of you noticing.

Then again, you had both been pretty distracted.

“For fuck’s sake, Michael! No!” came a shrill cry, and you saw Laurie pop up from behind the now-happily chugging machine, pointing her flashlight at the man’s eyes with a frightening accuracy. Michael roared, both hands flinging up to rub at his eyes as he dropped you to the ground, the fall winding you and forcing the air from your lungs – luckily Laurie had reached over to grab you, now pulling you out of the room and through the maze-like basement of the meat-packing plant, hand around your upper arm and eyes fixed on anything that wasn’t you. Your legs were weak beneath you, but Laurie’s grip was terrifyingly tight for a teenager so slight, and she clearly had no intention of letting you fall behind. Behind, where a now-furious Michael Myers was charging you down like an enraged bull and you were both a goading piece of red cloth. 

“C’mon! Here!” you hear someone else call from the side, and Laurie shoves you in front of her, letting go just long enough to fling a pallet down onto the Shape’s head, forcing another maddened bellow from the man before her hand was on you once again, steering you sharply left and towards the opened gate where a terrified-looking Ace and Nea were stood waiting. None of you wasted any time as you heard the hardwood pallet snap like a mere twig behind you, and as you ran through the exit gate you turned just long enough to see Michael staring after you. And only you.

Because like it or not, he had a new obsession. 

-

When you arrived back at the campfire, all four of you alive and only you (mildly) wounded, the general feeling was one of relief, but soon turned to confusion as the rest of the survivors tried to figure out just how the infamous Shape hadn’t managed to down a single one of you.

Nea’s hands stilled from where they deftly worked to stitch the cuts on your forehead, clearly putting two and two together. From the opposite side of the campfire, Laurie blanched. She’d been in that bathroom long enough to at least get the gist of it all, if not having seen the full picture.

If anyone asked for your experience of the trial, you were very happy to inform them that Michael had caught you off-guard when working on a generator, hit you a few times with his new pipe, and then conveniently, weirdly froze until Laurie ran in to find you and get you out alive. And that’s the story that, after a few stern glances from the Strode girl, the rest of your teammates stuck with.

Thank you, Laurie.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo. Laurie...........................<3


End file.
